Battle Red
All along the ramparts
eyes fixed upon a still distance,
they await enemy lines
approaching for that final assault;
and their hearts pound like cannon fire,
strong, steady affirmations of life,
yet standing on the precipice of death,
blood the color of battle,
of someone’s else’s war.
How young their faces,
their white-knuckled hands clenching
yew bows and spears,
beads of sweat upon their brows,
as time ebbs to the sunrise,
the break of day
and perhaps life as they know it,
soon to fade in time’s bleak dismissal,
a quiet falling star.
And as sunlight streams through breaks in cloud,
the lines approach, one after another,
too many to count,
and minds of seeded doubt
now consider the castle walls, how thick,
and the drawbridge for now secured,
as hearts batter body’s meek,
as reality now takes hold,
and fear saturates.
An hour passes,
and the ramparts are desolate,
smoke from slung fires linger,
and bodies smolder in death’s grasp,
as triumphant soldiers check the dead or dying
and assure the kill,
while Lords peruse the scene, bloated egos
and banners flying to toast
their dreams of victory.
And silent the ghosts of all that passed,
stunned and vacant,
watching the aftermath of pointless waste,
the smell of death like stale hast,
from life to death a moment passed,
and solemn sighs echo,
where chaos just departed,
and no-one can find reason
for this red travesty.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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Oh! the dreadful fear of what was to come and it is all over so soon – all for the sake of victory. Great work, Tony.
Thanks Phyllis, so glad I’ve not had to face someone else’s war. I’d fight for family and to defend our country, but much war is about politics and that I so disagree with. Take carer.